


Time. Closer.

by thorthelizardgod



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, I tried to make it angsty idk if it worked, I wrote this at like 1am in an hour, M/M, This is full of R Siken references sue me idc, Unsanitary, Valtr is briefly mentioned, Very Brief Violence, angsty, beasthood is tragic, hinting at sexual things shhh, raw meat consumption, very brief descriptions of guts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:03:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorthelizardgod/pseuds/thorthelizardgod
Summary: "We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful. It really is."- Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty RainBeasthood affects more than just the person who has it.





	Time. Closer.

Between near-constant bloodlust and the thrill of a hunt Gascoigne ends up eating _what_ever he can _when_ever he can.

It’s not entirely his fault, and the reason for it is one that he refuses to acknowledge and cannot acknowledge. 

Henryk knows what it is, too. 

He hadn’t brought it up to Gascoigne, and he probably never would, but there was a sadness that tugged at him from somewhere far away when he watched his partner go into a frenzied rampage out of hunger and the stench of blood.

And tonight he’s been on a few nasty rampages. It’s getting a bit annoying when they’re supposed to be hunting _together_. There’s a sudden shift in the light and Henryk realizes the night is coming to an end soon.

“How much time do you think we have left?”

An innocent enough question. Henryk won’t have to explain what he actually means, not that Gascoigne would be able to catch on when he’s like this.

“A few more hours, at most.”

They don’t have a few hours left. They have a few weeks at best, a few days at worst.

“Probably. Yeah.”

“Don’t know why you’d ask _me_. You’re better at predicting the end than I am”

There’s a lot of ends to think about, ends to tie up, and ends to cut off. Henryk doesn’t know how to handle this end and he probably never will until it gets there.

“Are you hungry?”

Gascoigne perks up at that. “Starving,” he snarls.

Maybe all the reckless and brutal hunting was out of hunger. Not what they both dreaded but refused to talk about.

Henryk remembers Valtr’s other title. _Beast Eater_. How he ate an entire beast, apparently a cleric beast, out of rage as revenge for his fallen compatriots. Valtr having yet to lose his humanity was proof enough that beasts’ blood wouldn’t make anything worse. Henryk asked Valtr about it once, only to get a shrug and “you wouldn’t understand,” in response.

Not that it mattered, with what probably little time they had left.

The bridge they’re on has a lone scourge beast that has its skull cleaved in two and crushed by Gascoigne’s axe, and Henryk wastes no time rolling it over to get to work. Its abdomen is uncomfortably skinny and its ribs are delineated to the point where Henryk wonders how it managed to live so long. Deft fingers and steady hands make quick work of it. Its guts slide out part way, tethered to the beast’s inside until he cuts them free and they slip out with a bit of coaxing. They’re plump in spite of the sickliness of the beast and quivering, slick with blood and steaming from exposure to the last bits of cold night air.

Gascoigne’s eyes are fixated on the pile of viscera when Henryk glances back at him and it’s almost enough to make him start crying. He doesn’t bother hiding his shudder of dread as he turns back to finish his work, and when he turns around with a hunk of beef-red meat to offer he finds Gascoigne eating sweetbreads like his life depends on it.

“Ay, don’t be greedy! The least you could do is save me some!”

If Gascoigne heard Henryk then there’s no response. A hard shove is what grabs his attention, and Henryk holds the meat chunk a hair away from his partner’s face, slapping the organ meat out of his partner’s hands and onto the ground. Gascoigne growls deep in his throat when Henryk won’t give him the meat.

“You go through all the trouble of cuttin’ that out and you won’t let me eat!? What’s gotten into you?”

“Your eye wraps. Take them off.” “No.”

“Fine. No meat.”

“Don’t test me-”

“Take off the wraps or starve.”

Gascoigne pauses. Falters.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. We _both_ know you can.” “I don’t want to.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“No, you little fool, what would I have to hide?”

_Little fool_ stings to hear. The look in Henryk’s eyes is enough to break Gascoigne without a verbal response.

“I won’t take them off. _You_ can take them off if you want to see it so badly.” Gascoigne’s voice has a tone of finality to it. No negotiations.

The meat exchanges hands and Henryk finds himself in front of his partner with his fingers hovering over his partner’s wraps. Gascoigne is already sinking his teeth into the beast flesh, blood staining his teeth and getting on his lips like watery paint or cheap lipstick. Henryk feels heat well deep behind his eyes as his index and middle fingers slip under the wrap by Gascoigne’s right eye, barely lifting it, before he realizes the truth is too much to bear. This was set in stone long ago. 

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

Henryk turns around and feels his jaw ache from holding back tears. He feels like he’s going to vomit from the weight of it all. It sits in his throat like a lump of meat that he’ll choke on or spit up.

Behind him he hears Gascoigne lick blood off his hands. Maybe he’s still hungry?

“Are you-”

Turning back around to look at his partner as he speaks is enough to make him lose his grip, tears streaming and chest heaving as he tries to get the words out. The lump in his throat swells and makes speaking hard, but at least Henryk isn’t choking

“Are- Are you still-” he pauses to inhale deeply and coughs out another sob, “Hungry?”

The saliva in his mouth feels thick and hot, and when Henryk speaks he’s certain that there’s strands of it from his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as if they’re trying to pull his jaw together and shut him up.

“No.”

Gascoigne looks resigned, as beautiful as ever in spite of the sad certainty that paints itself on his face. Even with his eyes covered and his mouth stained with drying blood Henryk can read him with ease.

“Will you protect yourself?”

Henryk’s chest tightens further at the sounds of Gascoigne’s voice. His ribs feel like they’ll break. Gascoigne doesn’t know how much power he actually has over Henryk beyond strength and size; Henryk knows how much power Gascoigne has over him- how many ways Gascoigne has power over him- and it’s _terrifying_.

“From- From me, I mean.”

It’s the breaking point, then. Henryk gets on his knees in front of his partner and bawls, head in his hands, and for once the feeling of Gascoigne’s hand on his shoulder can’t comfort him. Not when Gascoigne is the source of all this misery. He’s used to being on his knees for Gascoigne, but as an act of submission. Not emotions. Not crying.

There’s no way of telling how much time Henryk spends there, sobbing loud and raw, Gascoigne’s hand moving from resting on his shoulder to rubbing his back in an attempt at comfort that would have worked at any other time, but all Henryk can think of is what to do when Gascoigne’s nails become sharper. He wants Gascoigne to make him submit and treat him like something for pleasure instead of an equal. That way he doesn’t have to spill his guts and can just forget for a while.

He understands Valtr, now, why he did such a nonsensical act of revenge. Someone has to take the blame. He wishes he could tear apart a beast with his bare hands and hear it screech in agony for what the hunt has done to his partner.

All he can see is everything eating everything in the end, which is what he _didn’t_ want to see. 

Henryk manages to compose himself enough to the point where his sobs don’t wrack his entire body and make him unable to do anything else. He keeps his head buried in his hands as he speaks.

“How much time do you think we have left?”

He looks up at Gascoigne for something but he doesn’t know what it is he wants. He repeats himself.

“How much time do you think we have left?”

A resigned sigh from above.

“An hour or so. Let’s kill something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Snow and Dirty Rain, I Had a Dream About you, and Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors are probably the most striking Siken poems I can think of for these two. Every time I read them I can imagine scenarios so vividly and my mind just doesn't stop.  
I wrote this at 1am in like an hour so im sorry if it's bad but HEY when you gotta write you gotta write. and I've been wanting to write this for months. I can't write nothing but big-ass fics okay my tiny lizard brain needs a break sometimes lol also I wanted to see more Gascoryk fics so yea this is basically direct action xoxo


End file.
